


After the Storm is When the Flowers Bloom

by Fiorebambina



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Smut, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Smut, not for Daenerys fans? Kind of?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23423380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiorebambina/pseuds/Fiorebambina
Summary: Jon Snow is pardoned and allowed to return to Winterfell. Upon his return, he learns that Sansa has appointed a mysterious Essosi woman as her Hand of The Queen.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. Did You Ever Wonder?

**Author's Note:**

> As of right now, this story is complete. However, if you guys like it, I’ll continue ❤️

Lavinia had grown used to the cold air in the North. She felt it all around her, and inside of her.

The late winter snow fell down in soft waves, pausing for a few moments of blissful silence, before blanketing the Earth once more. It was beautiful, she’d hoped some day it would be enough. On better days, it was almost enough. 

Today was a better day. Solitude was sparse for her, and she found solace in the Godswood, whispering aloud to Gods that were not her own. Lavinia didn’t pray, but discussing her troubles out loud made her feel less alone. She spent so much time listening to others that the idea of being listened to herself was a treat. 

Serving as the Hand of the Queen to the Queen in the North had given her more than she’d ever anticipated. A new home, new people to call family, and an opportunity to leave everything else behind. She knew, however, that wherever she went, she would stay the same, nothing would change aside from her environment. At least that was something.

Her cloak hung heavy around her delicate shoulders and for a moment, she remembered what it felt like to be truly warm; to feel the sun on her skin, and the heavy weight of the ocean around her body. 

She spent a few more moments wandering through the snow, before retreating to the castle. The Queen had sent for her. 

Lavinia smiled at the thought. 

She had heard the Westerosi stories of royalty, fascinated by the divinity of power, and the reverence that came with leadership. 

Sansa was nothing like she’d imagined a Queen would be. She was kind and gracious, stern but fair, elegant, yet low maintenance. 

They had met in King’s Landing only days before Sansa was due home for her coronation, and became fast friends. Sansa had named her Hand of the Queen before she had even become Queen.

Like Sansa, Lavinia had a vision for a perfect world, one that accepted the imperfect nature of reality, but strove for peace and the protection of her people no matter the cost. 

Sansa had told Lavinia that she had a Northern soul, destined to end up at Winterfell with her; unmatched loyalty and the ability to withstand anything in her path. She stuck out like a sore thumb at first, but adapted quickly.

As she briskly walked past the braziers lining the stone halls of the castle, she nervously prepared herself for whatever Sansa would ask of her. Today was Lavinia’s day of rest, allotted once a week as a courtesy for all of her hard work. 

She let herself into Sansa’s chambers without a knock, to find her closest friend beaming with what appeared to be delight. 

“Oh Lavina, you won’t even believe what I've done.”

She raised an eyebrow apprehensively at her Queen. 

“I’ve really done it. Jon is coming home.”

Lavina exhaled all of her pent up fear and gasped as she embraced her friend. She had heard many tales of the infamous Jon Snow. He was revered in the North, and it was impossible not to know the stories. He was a war hero, and the people of Winterfell refused to let anyone forget it. 

Sansa spoke of him occasionally, detailing his bravery, telling his war stories. She spoke of him in a way that showed nothing but absolute admiration.

It made Lavinia miss her own brothers. 

The Queen had been in talks with her other brother, Bran, the King of the remaining six kingdoms, and the Lords and Ladies of Westeros over pardoning Jon for killing the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, for three years now.

She had wondered frequently what had truly happened to the Dragon Queen, but personal stories were not often shared in Winterfell. Lavinia had once loyally followed the Dragon Queen herself.

Sansa, though her closest friend, kept Jon’s life, and the lives of those he surrounded himself with, private, only sharing stories of his heroism and nothing else. 

“I shall be very excited to meet him, then.” 

Sansa knew Lavinia did not speak genuinely, but appreciated her best friend and most closely trusted advisor’s ability to remain professional. 

\---

Over the next few days, Winterfell had fallen into a state of happy chaos, like nothing Lavinia had seen here before. It was as if the castle were preparing for the arrival of a King.

She was, however, intrigued to finally meet the man behind the stories, as she thought she never would. Jon had been condemned to the Wall and beyond, and that had been that. 

Arya, Sansa and Jon’s sister, had returned to Winterfell as well in anticipation of her brother’s arrival. The stories she told about Jon were much more personal. She had told Lavinia about how Jon had given her her first sword and how he’d always been the only one to acknowledge her differences while they were growing up and appreciate her for them. He had never forced her to act like a Lady when everyone else had. 

Lavinia wanted to be excited, to feel the magnetism to this man that everyone else in Winterfell seemed to feel, but she wasn’t, and she didn’t. All she knew was that the benevolent Queen she chose to follow had turned malevolent within a short timespan, only to fall victim to this Jon Snow. 

He may be Sansa and Arya’s brother, but he had killed her Queen. 

Sansa knew all about Lavinia’s past loyalties and had accepted her with open arms nevertheless. Lavinia appreciated the way Sansa looked at leadership, admired how she disapproved of war, and how all Sansa wanted was to protect her people.

“Sansa goes a bit crazy when she wants to show off.” Arya smirked, startling Lavinia. 

“I’ll never get used to you creeping up behind me.” 

“I learned from the cats.” Arya stated matter-of-factly. 

Lavinia rolled her eyes, full of love, as she watched servants whisking casks of wine into the Great Hall. 

“Jon is going to hate all of this” Arya began, “and Sansa knows it. It’s sweet though, that she’s trying, I suppose.”

“Why should a  _ war hero _ reject being received in such a way?”

“Jon’s not like that.” 

Lavinia knew to tread carefully when speaking to Arya of her favourite brother.

“Would you like me to say something to Sansa? She listens to me.” 

Arya raised an eyebrow. “Do you truly believe Sansa will pass on an opportunity to let everyone know she is the Queen?” 

The two laughed together, pleasantly, as Lavinia conceded to the younger Stark.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” Sansa implored, hands on her hips, appearing behind Arya and Lavinia suddenly. 

“This is as good as it’s going to get.” Arya shrugged honestly, much to Sansa’s dismay. 

“And you?” Sansa asked, turning to Lavinia expectantly.

“I thought I looked nice and well.” 

“I’ll have a better gown sent to your chambers, go wait there.” 

Arya and Lavinia exchanged a look before parting ways to redress. 

Lavinia was quite glamorous and elegant herself, in her own right. Though the accoutrements of her birthplace remain rejected by the North, particularly Sansa.

This day meant nothing to her, but everything to Sansa, so she conceded.

  
  



	2. If You Need a Hero

Sansa had furiously ushered everyone who wasn’t Lavinia or family out of the room, tapping her foot expectantly, waiting for Jon. 

Arya was sprawled out on an ornately decorated bench, threatening the mice on the stone floor with her blade, much to Sansa’s chagrin, as Lavina paced, preferring to be spending her time anywhere else.

Time seemed to move slower in the North. She was sure of it. At home, her days flew by. Here, they dragged on.

She sipped from a glass of mulled wine, watching Sansa worry herself sick.

After what seemed like hours, the wooden doors were thrown open. Arya’s mask of indifference quickly disappeared as she jumped to her feet, and straight into Jon’s arms as he entered the room. 

He was truly nothing like Lavinia had been expecting. She had envisioned a tall, fear-inspiring, roughened, fierce war hero. 

He was just a man. Quite small too. He had a young face that appeared aged from years of strain, and long curls tied in a neat knot at the back of his head that would probably make him appear much younger if he took it down.

Her heart thumped in her chest as she looked at him, and she hated herself for it.  _ Gods, he was attractive _ . 

She watched Sansa and Arya greet him warmly, and she could see and feel the love he had for his sisters. It was palpable. She suddenly felt out of place. 

As she turned on her heels to leave, giving them privacy as a family, Sansa called out to her. 

“Jon, this is my very best friend, and my Hand, Lady Lavinia of House Crestmight.” 

He smiled apprehensively, but warmly, as he extended his hand to hers. “My Lady” he nodded politely, beginning to turn away, but turning back to her almost immediately. 

“I’m not familiar with that surname, Crestmight.” He spoke gently, his voice softer than she’d imagined. 

“I am not from Westeros, My Lord.” She answered courteously, wanting desperately to leave the room.

Ignoring the improper title, Jon took a small step closer to her. “Well, it’s good to meet you, My Lady, I hope my sister hasn’t caused you too much trouble.” 

She watched him fake a laugh, and almost appreciated him for it. 

“Oh, just the usual amount.” She responded, shifting her weight from her left foot to her right uncomfortably. “Well, i’ll leave you to reconnect with your family, I have a few important matters to attend to. You know, Hand of the Queen.” She lied, exiting the room hastily. 

She felt so angry. He was kind, and she wanted him not to be.

“She seems nice” Jon chuckled to his sisters, gradually beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable in his own home.

The three chatted for some time, mostly about what Jon had missed while he was gone. He smiled along, happy to be with his family, but nothing felt right. He looked around and subconsciously took inventory of every change that had taken place while he was away.

Arya, as usual, was the first to notice that something was amiss with Jon. “We’re so glad you’re home, Jon. I know it’s an adjustment. You must be missing the people you knew up North.”

He half-smiled, “Aye. There’s a few I miss.”

“Any girls?” Sansa asked, playfully raising her eyebrows. 

“Don’t you think i’ve learned my lesson by now? I’m done with all of that now. There’s no need.” He said seriously, exasperatedly, in hopes he won’t have to repeat it again. 

“Well, tonight we’re going to eat, and drink, and laugh like we used to. How does that sound?” Arya added, intercepting whatever response Sansa would likely contribute. 

“That sounds lovely,” Jon spoke genuinely. He had hardly experienced many happy memories here, but Arya had, and he smiled for her. 

After pausing for an uncomfortable moment, he settled on his next sentence. “I think i’m going to lie down for awhile, it’s been quite a journey, I wouldn’t want to miss the celebration later.” 

The two girls nodded, following him silently with their eyes, desperately hoping to eventually see him reacclimate to his own home.


	3. Just Look In the Mirror

-Jon-

Winterfell had changed in the years since his departure. It was home, but it wasn’t. Not really. 

His life in the true North had been fine. He tried to continuously remind himself that the times he had spent north of the wall with Ygritte had been the happiest time in his life. And that was true, but without her, the North was just the North. 

A life without responsibility was one Jon had craved since his first taste of freedom. However, being back, against his will, had been very different. 

He had truly missed his family. Bran, the King, and his sisters, Gods, his sisters. He knew they weren’t really his sisters, but they were. And Gods, they’re what kept him alive in the North. The thought of seeing his family again,  _ Arya _ , was the fantasy he held onto those three years. 

When he received the raven detailing his pardon, something he had silently longed for, he felt hopeful for the first time in many years. 

Now, staring at the walls and floors of his former home, he felt like an outsider. 

He looked around forlornly at the chamber that had been prepared for him, and he knew it had been Robb’s. The very thought of sleeping where his brother had slept brought up grief that he had never, to this day, had a moment of time to deal with. 

He watched Ghost, who was usually not allowed in the castle, pad around the room, sniffing suspiciously at everything. 

Jon had been welcomed back to Winterfell as a hero, when what he felt like was a traitor. He had put his people at risk, foolishly, for a woman he wasn’t even sure he loved, just to turn on her in the end. 

Now that grief, the grief that comes with the feeling of lost control, was what Jon had spent the past three years mulling over. Reconciling that he was not in fact, Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, but the last living Targaryen, and not a soul outside of his family, the Northern council, and the small council in King’s Landing, knew. 

He shoved those thoughts deep inside his soul, to be buried once more. 

Despite his apprehensions about being home, he had to give it to Sansa. She had done an incredible job the past few years. Between her impassioned plea for an independent North and the way she had graciously accepted the title of Queen, in turn, restoring the North to it’s former glory, Jon couldn’t even adequately express how proud he was of her. 

And Arya, his sweet youngest sister, had followed her nomadic soul around the world. He was amazed by what his family had accomplished.

With that, he felt extremely out of place. 

His mind began to wander to Sansa’s hand. He had very uncertain feelings about her that he couldn’t explain. It perturbed him that she was not even from this side of the world and yet she served as Hand of the Queen to his Northern sister.

She was, however, infuriatingly beautiful.

As he laid down he decided to deal with all of his intrusive thoughts later, and allowed himself to be excited for something: a belly full of warm food, wine, and music. Jon loved music.

  
  


\----

_ “Come here” Jon heard himself whisper, entangling his fingers in her thick, dark curls, pulling her mouth towards his and kissing her with an intensity he didn’t know he was able to muster. _

_ His hands then found the ribbons at the back of her gown, tugging on them until her breasts spilled out of the top, continuing to paw at her dress until she was bare before him. _

_ It was as if he had no control over his movements. _

_ He ran his hands all over her body, selfishly memorizing each and every curve, wanting desperately to please her more than himself. _

_ She then climbed onto his lap, undoing the strings on his tunic before pulling it over his head, and running her small hands over his perfect, umarred chest. _

_ He wasn’t sure when she had removed the rest of his clothing, but he suddenly found himself face to face with her, naked as their namedays.  _

_ “Jon” she moaned into his mouth, raking her nails down his bare spine. He gripped her thighs as his lips moved to her neck, kissing, biting, sucking on the sensitive flesh, reveling in the sounds she made. _

_ “Touch me,” she begged, and he could feel her slickness on his thigh “please.” _

_ He reached a gentle hand between their writhing bodies to slowly stroke her where she needed it most. He watched in awe as her head lolled back, panting and gasping for him. _

_ He felt himself palming her breasts slowly until she could no longer stand it, placing both hands on his chest and pushing him flat onto the bed. Robb’s bed. _

_ He gasped as she found his hard cock, squeezing it gently, before sliding it up and down her wet entrance devastatingly slowly.  _

_ “Fuck” he heard himself whine as she continued to tease him, her long, dark ringlets falling in front of her face, reaching down to her waist.  _

_ “Ask for it, Jon Snow.” She breathed tormentingly, tiny hand still wrapped around his heavy cock.  _

_ “Please” he moaned, reaching for her hips. _

_ She shimmied out of his grasp. “Please what?” _

_ “Please let me fuck you,” he begged “please.” _

_ “As you wish, My Lord.” She winked, sinking down on him, throwing her head back in pleasure. _

_ He watched her move slowly on him, up and down, rolling her hips too slowly. He watched her breasts bounce and he craned his neck, desperate to take one in his mouth.  _

_ She kept leaning back, out of his reach, fucking herself on his cock, until suddenly he felt the blooming heat in his belly, and the familiar tightness in his stones. _

_ As he spilled inside her, she began to disappear.  _

“Fuck.” Jon muttered, groggily waking from his short slumber. He had momentarily forgotten where he was, until he looked up and saw the ceiling. He ran a hand down his chest, fingers finding his scars, before letting his head fall back onto the pillow.

His breaths were shaky and his head was swimming. He reached a hand below the furs to feel himself and hissed in embarrassment upon realizing what had happened. 

“Fucking hell.” 

He pushed aside the curtains and saw that it had grown dark outside, he needed to dress for this horrible spectacle in the Great Hall. He had to look  _ her _ in the eyes after what he’d just seen.

\----

-Lavinia-

The Hand of the Queen awoke suddenly from a short sleep she hadn’t anticipated falling into. If it hadn’t been for the candles still burning beside her bed, she would’ve believed she had slept through the night, missing the festivities.

Once conscious, she kept her eyes closed, replaying the filthy dream she had woken from. Her best friend’s brother, naked beneath her, making her feel better than she’d felt in years. She had hardly even touched herself since her husband’s death.

As if suddenly unable to control herself, she buried a shy face into her pillow as she slid her hand down her body, stopping at her breasts, pinching a nipple and closing her eyes, pretending it was him. He felt so real. Her body had responded like it was real.

Her hands traveled further down as she began to touch herself under her smallclothes.

After a few blissful moments, she stopped herself. 

“No.” She said aloud, stepping out of the bed and into the new gown Sansa had sent for her. 

She attempted to freshen herself up, braiding of her dark curls in the front, leaving the rest to hang loose around her face. She slipped into the deep red gown, feeling painfully aware of the fact that the color of her face matched her dress. She stood in front of the mirror for longer than she’d like to admit.

She knew she was beautiful. She had always refused to be one of those Ladies who pretended that their beauty was their best kept secret. She had perfectly toned olive skin, emerald green eyes, and the longest, darkest, thickest head of hair. 

Tonight, she didn’t feel beautiful, she felt filthy, and it made her shy.

She hid her embarrassment beneath a facade of confidence, and left her chamber. 


	4. Everybody’s Going Through It

-Lavinia-

As Lavinia entered the Great Hall, she realized just how late she had been. The hall was filled and supper had already been served. The look on Sansa’s face meant she was in trouble. 

She sheepishly walked towards the table where the Starks had been seated, and sat beside Arya, who raised an eyebrow at her. 

“My apologies, it took me longer to dress than anticipated.” She half-lied.

Sansa inhaled deeply, assessing her friend, before gingerly reaching across the table to take Lavinia’s hand “Well, you look absolutely lovely in that gown. I can’t possibly be upset with you.”

She smiled back at her friend sheepishly; her eyes idly traveling to the empty seat at the table.

“Where is the guest of honor?” She implored, feeling as if everyone could read her mind and see the dream that she had.

“He stepped out for a moment,” Sansa began, sounding displeased “I don’t think he likes all of this.”

“You knew he’d hate it, Sansa.” Arya shrugged, polishing off whatever she had been drinking. 

“I just wanted him to see that we’re happy he’s home,  _ Arya _ .” 

“Well you came up with the worst possible way to do s-“

“Ladies,” Lavinia interjected, “I’m sure he appreciates the sentiment. Anyone would be lucky to have sisters like you.”

Arya and Sansa rolled their eyes lovingly at Lavinia’s sickly sweet comment. 

“There you are!” Sansa exclaimed suddenly,craning her neck. 

Lavinia turned her head immediately, making uncomfortable eye contact with Jon. He forced an obviously feigned smile at her and his sisters. 

She could no longer hear whatever it was that Sansa and Arya had begun to say to Jon. All she could do was stare as his hands, the ones that seemed to know her body so intimately in sleep. 

Her eyes slowly drifted up his sulking form and she couldn’t help but stare at his neck. His neck that she had been biting and kissing and marking as her own while she slept. 

“Are you enjoying the party?” He spoke up, to Lavinia.

“Hmm?” She responded hastily, forgetting how to use her words.

“The party, do you like it?” He repeated, kindly.

She nodded with feigned excitement, and he saw right through her. He appeared to be just as embarrassed as she was, though she’d wager it was for a very different reason. 

“I love the music,” he began without invitation “i’ve so rarely had a chance to hear music. Well, real music, not the drunken singin’ of soldiers.”

She smiled politely. Rejecting conversation in the most regal way she knew how.

“Lavinia is a singer, Jon. She sings for us all the time! Oh, you must hear her sing.” Sansa bubbled with pride, beginning to motion to the women playing various instruments at the front of the hall. “Let Lavinia sing something next.”

Lavinia paled. “That isn’t necessary, i’ve hardly had time to warm my voice.”

“Nonsense!” Sansa said excitedly “Sing the ballad about Jenny, you know it’s my favourite!”

Lavinia smiled wearily at her best friend, the Queen, whom it was impossible to deny. Her excitement brought Lavinia momentary pain. 

Jon raised an eyebrow at Lavinia as if to challenge her. 

She had never backed away from a challenge before. 

Her gown swayed elegantly as she made her way to the front of the hall, joining the musicians confidently. She was greeted with thunderous applause. She sang quite frequently at feasts, and the residents of Winterfell adored her. 

“Well, it’s lovely to be up here again, it’s been quite some time hasn’t it?” She smiled at the familiar faces in the hall. “This is one I learned for Queen Sansa, it’s the story of Jenny of Oldstones, the wife of Duncan Targaryen,” she smiled, “commonly known as the Prince of Dragonflies.”

The ladies in the crowd shouted loving encouragement. 

“They called Jenny a witch, often spoke ill of her, but Jenny loved the smallfolk and spent her time amongst her people. I admire that.”

Once the attendees quieted, she began to sing. 

  
  


\-----

-Jon-

Jon recognized the lump in his throat as she sang. 

In all honesty, he wasn’t having a terrible time, at least not as terrible as his sisters presumed. He felt a certain smugness at being able to privately enjoy something. It was quite nice to see people he hadn’t seen in years, people he’d fought beside, people he’d drank beside. 

He wanted to drink with his former men and forget everything that had happened, but all he could do now was watch Lavinia sing. 

She truly was beautiful, and unlike any woman Jon had seen before. Her skin was darker than that of Northern folk and most Westerosi folk north of Dorne. Her Emerald colored eyes were hopeful, but sad, something Jon understood very well. Her hair was so long, and dark as night. Jon wanted to fist his hands in it. 

His eyes moved down her body at the pace of the ballad she sang, and he blushed as if he had truly seen her unclothed, despite it just being a dream.

He wondered if she knew who he was, the last Targaryen, as she sang of his ancient relatives he knew nothing about. 

“Is this about real people?” Jon asked Sansa, leaning over the table. 

She looked at him incredulously, “You’ve never heard of the Prince of Dragonflies? Or Jenny?” 

“I put a knife in the heart of the only Targaryen I knew anything about.” He responded far more casually than he felt. He leaned back in his chair and nonchalantly took a swig of ale.

Sansa wasn’t sure how to respond, and the two turned their attention back to Lavinia who was finishing the final lines of the song. 

_ “High in the halls of the kings who are gone _ _   
_ _ Jenny would dance with her ghosts _ _   
_ _ The ones she had lost and the ones she had found _ _   
_ __ And the ones who loved her the most…”

The hall bounced and bobbled with praise as she smiled sweetly to the faces before her. 

Wandering back to the Starks, she sat facing Jon this time. 

“That was lovely,” he began in earnest “I’d never heard that story before.” 

She smiled and raised her eyebrows at him. “It’s quite a popular story.”

He shrugged “Never had much time for stories.”

He could see the sympathy in her eyes and he didn’t want it. 

“Do you know much of the Targaryen history then?” He continued.

“I do. I studied all the noble houses of Westeros in depth when I was a girl. I always wanted to travel the world.” She admitted reluctantly, reminding herself that he is a traitor.

“Would you...walk with me?” Jon asked hesitantly, “I have a few questions and I think you may be able to answer them. My Lady. If it pleases you.”

He was nervous. He was hardly nervous. 

_ “I’ve ridden a dragon, I've fought one on one with a bloody white walker, I can take a girl’s arm.”  _ He scolded himself silently, extending his arm to Lavinia. 

Sansa hadn’t noticed the two speaking, she had flitted away to gush with a few Northern Ladies she had grown close with. Arya noticed.

He silently gasped as he felt her take his arm. He had absolutely no idea just how lonely he’d been until right now. 

“What would you like to know?” She asked, intentionally breaking his reverie.

He paused to think. “We could start at Jenny...and the Prince, if you’d like.” 

He forced a smile as she looked at him inquisitively. 

“Well,” she began, aimlessly gliding the halls of Winterfell on Jon’s arm “Duncan Targaryen was the son of Aegon V and Betha Blackwood. He was one of four children. His siblings were Rhaella, Daeron, and Aerys II commonly known as-”

“The Mad King” Jon finished.

“Yes, the Mad King.” 

“And Jenny?” He inquired.

“You’re a very curious man, Jon Snow.” She said to him, gifting him her first genuine smile of the night. He appreciated it.

“Jenny was said to have been quite a lovely girl. They say she always wore flowers in her hair and that she loved to dance. She claimed descent from some long-dead Kings of the first men, but many believed her to be nothing more than a half-mad peasant. And then she met Duncan Targaryen, and he was positively bewitched by her.” Lavinia’s face lit up as she continued the story “While traveling in the Riverlands, the then Prince of Dragonstone fell so madly in love with Jenny, breaking off his betrothal to the daughter of the Lord of Storm’s End. He loved Jenny so much that he gave up the Iron Throne for her.”

“That’s quite romantic.” Jon mused sarcastically.

“Quite.” Lavinia responded with sincerity, “But Jenny’s story only gets more interesting. Jenny had then befriended a woods witch, claiming her as one of the children of the forest. She trusted this witch implicitly, bringing her to court to relay a prophecy that she’d had.” 

“What prophecy?” Jon was entranced by the story being told, so much so, he forgot how cold he was without his cloak.

“The woods witch prophesied that “The Prince that was Promised” would be born from the bloodline of Prince Aerys and Princess Rhaella Targaryen.”

Jon held in his reaction once more.

“Prince Jahaerys heard this prophecy,” she continued “and arranged a marriage between the two.”

“So what happened to them?” 

“Well, Prince Duncan and King Aegon were killed in the tragedy at Summerhall, and like I sang, Jenny was said to have spent the rest of her days dancing through the halls of the castle with her ghosts.” 

“That’s a sad story.” 

“Most love stories are.”

“Aye.” Jon agreed, looking back at Lavinia who finally seemed to be more comfortable in his presence. 

“I should be returning soon, Sansa will be looking for me as she always is. Should you have any more questions about the Targaryen legacy, you’ll know where to find me.” She spoke pleasantly, hastily.

“I should return as well, it is my party after all.” He said with an unintentional twinge of humour. Lavinia’s small chuckle confirmed his pleasantry. 

As she disappeared into the labyrinthine halls, Jon thought about everything Lavinia had told him. It still did not seem real to him that Duncan Targaryen and the rest of whom she’d mentioned were his own family. It was equally unsettling and exciting.

He felt an unconscious smile slip onto his face as he returned to the party.


	5. The Sun’ll Come Out

-Lavinia-

_ She smiled as his hands found the back of her head, undoing her braids, lovingly scratching her scalp as he pulled her in for a deeper kiss.  _

_ She shuddered, arching into his pleasant embrace. He smelled of leather and pleasant, manly musk. It was intoxicating. _

_ He kissed her from her collarbone to the tip of her nose, before laying her gently down on the bed. He kneeled before her as he stripped away the many layers that concealed his battered body.  _

_ This time, his perfectly unmarred chest had changed, and it was covered in ugly, purple wounds. She wanted to say something but she couldn’t, her head was swimming, she felt utterly delirious. She looked away. _

_ “Look at me, love.” He whispered, hanging his legs off the side of the bed to remove his boots, and eventually the rest of his clothes. _

_ Gods, he was beautiful. The light of the fire flickering off of his marbled body sparked an unquenchable desire within her. She reached for him, pulling him on top of her with all of her might. _

_ He chuckled, that sweet sound that so rarely left his lips. She gently raked her nails up his back, hoping for a flash of his heart-melting toothy grin.  _

_ Once she elicited a smile from him, she relaxed, keeping her hands at her sides, waiting to see how he’d take her.  _

_ This time, instead of wrapping his arms around her and holding her close, he slithered down her body, planting gentle kisses along her soft skin. _

_ She watched him intensely, refusing to take her eyes off of him.  _

_ He continued with his kisses, though the further down he slid, the less chaste his kisses became. _

_ As he reached her hips, he left hot, wet, open mouthed kisses everywhere. _

_ She writhed beneath his lips, her cunt aching and needy. She enjoyed the sensation of his kisses, but needed her release. _

_ She reached to pull him up to her, to take him inside of her, but it was too late, he had relocated his kisses to her cunt, and she couldn’t find a single complaint. _

_ Her back arched off the bed as she sang his name, her vision going black as she succumbed to the pleasure.  _

_ She shut her eyes and threw her head back as he eased her into her orgasm. Once she opened her eyes, he was gone. _

“Son of a bitch” she cursed, fluttering her eyelashes as she awoke from yet another dream of Jon Snow. A man she had met only hours ago.

Her body was trembling and she could tell that, while everything else was fiction, her orgasm wasn’t. 

She crawled over to the window and peered through to find nothing but darkness. It must be the middle of the night. 

Humming softly to herself, she lit the brazier in her chamber, illuminating the room, bringing her back to reality. 

She tried to think of a great many things, but her mind kept settling on Jon Snow. Sansa’s formerly-exiled war hero bastard brother with a million questions. 

While she had her many reservations about him, he was, like Sansa and Arya had said, very kind. He was soft spoken, reserved, shy even, and excruciatingly handsome. The kind of handsome that affected people. She didn’t go looking for it but it was impossible to miss how the women would swoon when he’d enter a room. Lady Verthorn nearly fainted when he brushed against her.

His interest in the Targaryens had both unsettled her and sparked interest in her. Though she no longer thought reverently of her former Queen, she couldn’t trust Jon. Not yet. She’d be remiss if she said she hadn’t enjoyed his conversation, however.

She was deep in thought about the mysterious Jon Snow when her solitude was broken by a soft rap at the door. 

Her heart stopped. It was the middle of the night. Where were her guards? Was it Sansa? Had we been attacked? 

She quickly threw on a silk robe and opened the door with haste.

She was startled to find the object of her reverie standing before her. 

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” He asked uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, trying to politely avert his gaze from her form. His voice was thick, and scratchy, like he’d only just woken up himself.

She instinctively covered herself up, pulling the robe closer to her form. 

“No, I was awake already. I had the...strangest dream.” She trailed off.

He cleared his throat. “As did I, My Lady.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “I had an odd feeling you’d be the only one else awake, and I wondered if you’d like to take a walk with me.” 

Her heart fluttered in her chest. She fought it. He was fucking bold.

“I’m not so sure about a walk, but come in. Take a seat if you’d like, i’ll dress quickly.”

“That isn’t necessary, My Lady, I could go. I’m not sure what I was thinking, bothering you in the middle of the night.” He spoke quickly, making his way back to the door.

“Stay. No bother.” She said simply, dismissing his worry with a flick of her wrist before disappearing behind a dressing divider.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the story you told me earlier, of Duncan and Jenny, and the woods witch she brought to court--I'd never heard that before.” He admitted shyly, trying to avert his eyes from the divider, despite knowing he wouldn’t be able to see anything anyways.

“The story of Jenny and Duncan or the fancy mythical prophecy?” She responded from behind the divider, secretly hoping he’d have more questions for her.

“The prophecy.”

“I thought everyone had heard of The Prince that was Promised.”

“Aye,” he began, treading carefully, “I’ve heard tales, but never from those with trustworthy lips.”

She wondered what had sparked his curiosity, but held off on asking questions.

“Well, what do you know, so I can know which parts of the story to leave out.”

He was silent for a moment, and she stood on the tips of her toes to catch a glimpse of him. He looked as if he were deciding whether or not to divulge something.

“I was told...by a witch,” he paused, gauging her response. She remained silent. “That when the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers, the Prince that was Promised shall be born again amidst smoke and salt.”

She chuckled at his ability to recite that perfectly from memory. 

“That funny?” He asked teasingly, and very out of character.

“Do you spend a lot of time amongst witches, Jon Snow?” She asked, her turn to tease. 

She finished dressing, but remained behind the divider, enticed by the intimacy of their conversation, unable to watch his expressions change.

“No,” he said seriously, “just the one. With the aforementioned untrustworthy lips.” 

“Well, she was correct about the prophecy. No one knows if there is any truth behind it, but the prophecy goes back thousands of years.” She said, stepping out from behind the divider. 

Jon smiled sheepishly as she sat across from him at the small table, pouring him a goblet of wine. 

“If you prefer ale i’ll send for some. I can’t stomach anything other than wine i’m afraid.” She offered generously, studying his face each time he looked away. 

“Wine is just fine, thank you.” He cleared his throat. “Was there ever anybody believed to be the Prince that was Promised?” He asked suspiciously, leading Lavinia to believe he knew more than he let on.

“Well, according to whispers and nothing more, they say Aemon Targaryen believed--”   
  


“Aemon Targaryen?” Jon interrupted, “I knew him.”

“You knew him?” She questioned skeptically.

“Aye. He was Maester of the Night’s Watch while I was there.”

She smiled. 

“Continue” Jon urged as she tried to remember her train of thought.

“Oh yes, well, Aemon Targaryen believed that Rhaegar Targaryen was the Prince who was Promised. Rhaegar eventually believed it too. Aemon thought that the smoke would be from the fire at Summerhall and the salt would be from the tears of those who cried there.”

“Well then,” Jon breathed, visibly fascinated. Lavinia enjoyed sharing her well of knowledge, especially when it was so well received. Especially when it was so well received by a gorgeous man who looked at her with wonder in his eyes.

“Do you think Rhaegar Targaryen was the Prince that was Promised?” He asked sheepishly.

She looked at him incredulously. “Absolutely not, Jon.” She laughed. His heart fluttered at the first casual use of his name.

“After Rhaegar’s son Aegon was born,” Jon drew in a sharp breath as she continued, “a comet had been seen in the sky above King’s Landing. He then believed the infant Aegon to be the promised prince. Unfortunately, as I'm sure you know, Rhaegar was killed at the Trident by Robert Baratheon, and the infant Aegon killed during the sack of King’s Landing. Doesn’t make much sense for them to have been the promised prince, there’s nothing to show for it. You and your sisters solved the undead problem. I suppose the prophecy was just a story.”

Jon’s breathing grew more erratic, he wore a conflicted expression on his face, and though it was subtle, she noticed. 

“That’s enough of that for now.” She said swiftly, pouring each of them more wine. 

“Thank you for answering my questions, My Lady, I appreciate it.” He said genuinely, a small but real smile splayed across his face.

“Just Lavinia, please. All day every day I have to hear ‘My Lady’ and I've grown tired of it. My mother and father gave me a name, i’d like to not forget it.” 

“Lavinia, then.” He said softly, and she smiled. “What else do you know of Prince Rhaegar?”

“Aren’t you tired of the Targaryens, Jon?” She asked honestly, exasperatedly. “Don’t you want to know anything about me?” She wished she hadn’t spoken so sharply.

“I suppose I'm just fascinated by them is all.” He answered meekly.

“And you never thought to ask Queen Daenerys about all of this? Prince Rhaegar was her brother after all.” 

Jon lost the air in his lungs at the mention of her name, and he was hurt by her words, though he hoped she meant no ill-intent by them. 

“Daenerys wasn’t a talker. She was a doer.” He responded simply.

“I assume then you two never had much time for pillow talk.” She retorted boldly.

His face reddened and he stood suddenly. “I’m not sure why you take issue with me. All I ever did in life was my duty. I thought it was nice to speak with someone, ask my questions and be answered by someone knowledgeable, but it appears you mean to mock me.”

“Jon,” she began, softer this time, stilling him with the touch of her hand.

He looked back at her with sad eyes, and she regretted her sharpness once again.

“I’m sorry. I only...I...please sit.” She continued, softly commanding him. He did as she asked.

He looked at her expectantly, his normal colour not yet returning to his face.

“Years ago, when I still lived in Volantis, my husband and I had followed the Dragon Queen. Whispers of her conquests combined with a feeling of hope seeped through every crack in the Bay of Dragons. She ended slavery, she burnt evil men, she saved the Essosi people from a never ending wheel of terror. And then she meets you, and she burns a city full of innocent people to the ground, and then you killed her.” 

Jon closed his eyes, taking a moment to process her statement. He understood her apprehensions fully, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. 

He decided to be completely transparent with her. 

“Daenerys had always been that way. She insisted on Fire and Blood being the only means of taking what she believed to be hers. Lavinia, I believed in her too. I even thought I loved her for a time. She wasn’t mad either, like everyone believed; she was insistent, and she had lost everyone and everything. I tried to talk to her but it was in vain. She had so many plans to continue burning and taking until everything was hers. I didn’t want to do what I did, I had to.” 

She stared at the goblet of wine in front of her as he spoke. He sounded pained, and genuine. It was easy to tell when Jon Snow was not being genuine. 

“I appreciate your honesty, and I apologize for being so presumptuous.” She conceded simply, metaphorical tail between her legs. She wanted to put up a fight, but she’d save her questions for another night.

He sighed “That’s alright.” 

It was quiet for a moment, before, in true Jon Snow fashion, he started with the questions again.

“What happened to your husband?”


	6. Look Both Ways

“What happened to your husband?” Jon asked, softly, hesitantly. 

“He died.” 

Jon remained silent, hoping she would continue without him needing to prod for more.

“I suppose you’ll want to know how.” She responded exasperatedly.

He nodded shyly.

She smiled a pained smile, truly looking into Jon’s eyes for the first time since they’d met as she prepared to tell the story for only the second time. Sansa had been the only other one to hear it. 

“My husband was quite a formidable soldier.” She began, a solemn smile on her face. “When he received word that the Dragon Queen had returned to her ancestral seat at Dragonstone, he sought to eventually travel and pledge his loyalty and sword to her, as did I. Eventually we heard that she had allied with a Northern King, and followed him to Winterfell.”

She chuckled sadly at her last sentence before continuing, Jon had a nervous half-smile on his face. 

“My husband knew a lot of Westerosi men, especially spies, living inconspicuously in Essos. They warned him of an impending “secret war” and that the King in the North had bent the knee and sworn fealty to the Queen. We boarded a ship to White Harbor and ended up in Winterfell. My husband actually fought alongside you in the Battle at Winterfell.” 

Jon looked at her with a pained, passionate intensity as she spoke.

“I don’t think I ever saw you.” Jon said in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper.

“I never made it to Winterfell while my husband was alive. He kept me hidden in a brothel some hundred miles north for protection.”

Jon nodded, encouraging her to continue. 

“I followed my husband to King’s Landing, though. I watched the city fall, and I am lucky to be alive. My husband wasn’t so lucky. He refused to participate in the killing of innocents, and he himself was killed by a Dothraki soldier. At least that’s what I was told.” She trailed off, the fresh sting of heartbreak surfacing through the expressions on her face. 

Jon felt incredibly guilty.

“Did I know him? Your husband.” He asked softly.

“He met you once, spoke highly of you at that. He made you seem positively terrifying. I pictured a towering man capable of striking fear into the hearts of anyone who looked upon him.” She chuckled.

“Is that idea so funny to you?” He mused humorously, effectively lightening the mood.

“I believe you may be intimidating on the battlefield, but the only fear you instill in me is the fear that my manners may not be as good as yours.”

For the first time, Jon let out a real laugh. The sound made Lavinia’s heart ache. She fought the feeling once more.

The candles had started to burn down, and Lavinia didn’t miss a beat. She began to light new ones, and Jon was grateful. He wasn’t ready to leave yet. 

“Can I ask you a question?” She began, continuing to replace the candles throughout the chamber.

“Aye, it would only be fair since i’ve asked you near a thousand.”

“Why this sudden curiosity with the Targaryens? I’d think you’d want to push them out of your mind.”

“I tried that. I just...feel like there’s so much everyone knows about everything except me.” He admitted, feeling extremely vulnerable all of a sudden.

“I hardly paid attention to my lessons,” he continued, “all I ever wanted was to hold a sword in my hand and belong to something.”

She gently placed a hand on his arm as he reached for his wine. “You are a part of something. Look at your family, Jon. Your sisters love you, they talk about you endlessly. Your brother, too.”

He sighed, looking at her with vulnerable eyes. “How about that walk?” He asked again, and this time Lavinia agreed. 

She sensed that there had been much he was holding back, and she understood. He had not lived an easy life by any standards. He had been hurt, badly, and it was written all over his face. He seemed like a lost child, not a fierce warrior. Her resentment had finally turned into pity.

“Are you alright?” She asked sincerely, taking his arm as she followed him into the depths of Winterfell. Not a single soul in all of the castle stirred, and she enjoyed the casual intimacy with Jon. 

“Sansa really hasn’t told you?” He asked incredulously, taking her down yet another flight of stone steps.

She shrugged, having no idea what he was alluding to. 

“She only tells secrets to those who don’t need to hear them then, I suppose.” He mumbled to himself.

Lavinia held his arm tighter as they descended the final staircase, growing increasingly engulfed in darkness. 

Jon lit a torch from one of the few small candles, and he illuminated the room. 

They were in the crypts. Lavinia had never found it in her to explore down here, it was sacred to the Stark family, and she felt out of place. She idly released his arm as he began to walk further into the darkness.

“This is Brandon Stark,” Jon began, gesturing to one of the statues “next to his father, Rickard Stark. They were killed by Targaryens.” 

She nodded in solemn reverence as he moved along. 

“Eddard Stark.” He said quietly, his own reverence showing through the tone in his voice.

“Your father.” She whispered understandingly. He just looked back at her with the same vulnerable eyes, saying nothing, as he continued to walk, stopping in front of the final statue.

“Who is this?” She asked quietly as Jon lit the candle in the hands of the statue.

“This is Lyanna Stark. Lord Stark said Arya looks just like she did.” His voice was practically a whisper. He didn’t turn to look for Lavinia’s reaction this time; he just stared at the statue.

Lavinia put a soothing hand on his arm, and he continued speaking. 

“She’s...” He trailed off, and an absurd idea entered Lavinia’s mind. What if he’d had a reason for all of his questions?

It was Lavinia’s turn to lose all of the air in her lungs. She gasped quietly, her eyes begging for an explanation.

Jon’s eyes finally met hers and it was as if he could read her mind. Turning his eyes back to the statue of Lyanna, he began to speak.

“Rhaegar Targaryen didn’t kidnap or rape Lyanna Stark. He loved her.” 

Lavinia’s heart sped up in her chest, there was absolutely no way Jon would say what she thought he would say, until he did.

“His marriage to Elia Martell was annulled and the records were hidden away in a maester’s log at the Citadel. That same maester married Rhaegar and Lyanna in a secret ceremony.” he paused before continuing, “Lyanna died giving birth.”

“To you” Lavinia whispered.

“Aye.”

“Jon…” she whispered, finally understanding the gravity of his pain.

“How long have you known?” 

He exhaled shakily before finally turning his eyes back to Lavinia.

“I only learned about it the last time I was in Winterfell. I spent my entire life wondering who I was, and the truth cost me everything.”

She leaned her head on his fur-cloaked shoulder, showing him that he needn’t deal with this all on his own.

He immediately softened at the physical contact, and felt a certain comfort in knowing that he could finally tell his secret to someone without it having consequences.

“Thank you.” He said quietly, suddenly.

“For what?” 

“Listening.”

The feeling of pity crept back into her. She could tell that the last thing he wanted was pity.

“Jon,” she began cooly, “let me take you somewhere now.”

He smiled sweetly. He knew every inch of Winterfell more intimately than she possibly could, but in that moment, he realized that he would probably follow her anywhere, if she asked.


	7. Nothing Good Ever Comes Easy

“Forgive me, but I've never seen a Lady in a gown traipse through the woods the way you do” Jon chuckled as Lavinia walked across a fallen log, urging him to follow suit.

It was childish, and lighthearted. Completely new territory for Jon.

She turned her head quickly to catch a glimpse of him. He had his arms out, obviously lacking the perfect balance Lavinia seemed to manage effortlessly. 

“You’ve not spent time with many fun ladies then. I’m quite fun, Jon.” 

His mind unconsciously flashed back to his dreams about her, “Aye, I believe it.”

He scolded himself internally.

She laughed, thinking back to her own dreams, and darted along the path, leaving Jon Snow completely out of her sight. 

He wore an incredulous expression on his face, winding through the Godswood in the middle of the night, following a mysterious woman he’d known for a day to Gods know where.

When he rounded the final corner, he came across Lavinia standing proudly beside a hot spring, undoing the long braid that fell along the side of her face.

“You should have more fun, Jon Snow” She shrugged casually, letting her loose hair spill over her shoulders. She smiled innocently as she kicked off her shoes, letting her bare feet sink into the cold Earth.

“I believe you are a mad woman” Jon said lightheartedly, a bit of mischievousness hidden in his voice.

Jon had forgotten that he was allowed to be fun.

“Don’t tell me you’ve  _ never _ gone for a late night swim all alone in the middle of the forest” She smirked.

“I’ve never gone for a late night swim all alone in the middle of the forest. You seem like you do it all the time. I shall reiterate; you are a mad woman” Though he attempted to speak seriously, his laughter overtook him, and he found himself shaking his head in disbelief as he kicked off his boots.

“I’m only putting my toes in the water”

“Whatever suits you Jon Snow,” she began, unlacing her dress “you might want to look away, preserve your modesty or whatnot.”

His eyes widened in disbelief, “ _ My _ modesty?”

“You westerners and your modesty and your honor and your rules, don’t you get tired of it?” 

He nodded in concession, but still looked away, mostly to hide the blooming heat creeping up his face in the form of a blush.

After a few moments, he turned his head slightly, to see if she had finished undressing, and she had. She stood by the water, dipping a toe just beneath the surface. Her long, dark hair was illuminated by nothing but moonlight as it spilled over her nude form. 

Jon fought to tear his eyes away from her once more. Sucking in a deep breath, he gently reminded himself that he had sworn off women and that she would be his friend. That is what he needed after all, a friend. She was the Hand of the Queen for Gods’ sake. He was just Jon.

“You can stop pretending to be fascinated by that tree branch now.” She teased, breaking him from his reverie.

He turned to look at her again as she disappeared under the hot water. Once she finally returned to the surface, she swam over to the edge of the pool where Jon had now submerged his feet.

“You look like a mermaid” He said, his mind forgetting to filter any and all thoughts.

“Then you look like a  _ very _ serious sailor” she responded quietly, narrowing her eyes, disappearing under the dark water once more. 

“Join me, Jon Snow” she begged playfully, splashing him gently as she returned to the surface.

He sighed exasperatedly, as he always did. He didn’t feel like divulging anything else about himself tonight, he wanted everything to stay lighthearted. 

“Do you not like the water?” She asked genuinely.

“I do.”

“Then join me,” she began softly, “I'll look away.”

He smiled appreciatively, “I’m alright.”

She dove deep underwater, racking her brain, deciding whether or not to be as bold as Jon Snow, though he had no idea how bold he was.

“I had a dream about you.” She said simply, bobbing out of the water just enough so he could see the tips of her breasts. He tried very hard to make it seem like he didn’t look, but he did, and she noticed.

He swallowed hard. Nervously.

“Yeah? What was the dream”

“You,” she hesitated, “ were covered in terrible scars.”

His eyes widened, he looked terribly afraid.

“But,” she started again, diving beneath the water and resurfacing in a swift motion, “you were still lovely.”

All of his words had left him. All he could do was look at her with wide, vulnerable eyes. 

She remained silent, watching him as he slowly removed his cloak. 

Her heart sped up as she lightly treaded water, never taking her eyes off of him. 

He continued to slowly remove his outerwear before gently pulling his tunic over his head. 

He was covered in scars. The same scars from her dream. 

“I had a dream about you as well,” he said so quietly it was almost a whisper, “two, actually.”

“Is that so?” she breathed, looking away courteously as he removed the rest of his clothes.

She turned to catch a glimpse of him but he had already dove into the pool, splashing her as he did so. 

She swam over to him and placed a hand on his chest, her heart banging against her ribcage as she felt his own heartbeat.

“It was a dream but...it wasn’t, was it?” She asked genuinely, serenely, as she looked into his eyes. For the first time, he held her eye contact without fear, or worry.

“It didn’t feel like a dream” he admitted shyly, gently reaching a clumsy hand to caress her lower back. 

“Kiss me,” she whispered boldly, and he did. Oh Gods, he did. 

She wrapped her arms around his neck as his own snaked around her waist.

“How,” Jon began, breathing the words against her lips, “did we share a dream?”

She kissed him back, furiously, as if he’d disappear.

“What if this is a dream right now…” she trailed off, worriedly. 

“Mmm, I don’t think so,” he mumbled against her neck, leaving soft, gentle kisses.

She relaxed once more as he lightly nipped at her neck, jaw, and earlobes. Her whole body shuddered at the feeling, and she had almost forgotten that 24 hours ago she had tried to hate this man.

She ran her hands down his chest, gently tracing all of the lines, and scars, and muscles. He did the same, softly exploring her body with his hands as they sank into the hot water.

“Where the hell did you come from” he muttered deliriously as he continued to plant lazy kisses all over her neck and collarbone.

“Volantis” she teased, knowing that he was definitely not thinking about geography.

“Exotic” he mumbled.

They continued to kiss, and touch, and tease for a little while longer, before deciding to retreat to the warmth of the castle.

“Come back with me,” she offered enticingly as Jon helped her back into her dress, “you saw how warm my chamber was.”

“Your chamber was my old chamber,” he said seriously, “they have me in my brother Robb’s old room.”

“Oh, we could always have our things swapped so you could have your old--”

“No.” He cut her off, gently placing a now-gloved hand on the back of her neck, pressing his forehead to hers intimately, “If I may be so bold; I wish to fuck you in the room where I grew up.”


End file.
